Plastic Paddy (n.) a person who retains a strong sense of Irish cultural identity despite not having been born in Ireland or being of only partial Irish descent; generally used in reference to Irish-English or Irish-Americans. Perceived as irritating poseurs by Irish nationals.

St Patrick’s Day is the epicentre of Plastic Paddydom. It’s when the faux-Irish put on their green drag and take on an Irish burr for a night of excessive drinking and offensive, reductive commentary about the “Oirish”. But there is a rival to its insipid influence – Arthur’s Day on the 26th September.

Arthur Guinness, the founder of the Guinness brewery, was an incredible man, a genuine visionary and entrepreneur of incredible intellect and skill. Diageo, which now owns the Guinness brand, is a corporate behemoth. Arthur’s Day is the company’s annual corporate booze bandwagon which sweeps across Ireland (and the world), tapping into some of the worst aspects of Irish culture. Stereotypes that need to die.

There is a common misconception that Irish people are “good” drinkers. They are not. The gibbering figure of Shane MacGowan at his worst should be the patron saint of Irish drinkers. As a rule, the Irish start drinking too early and carry on until they collapse in a gutter or end up in Coppers, Dublin’s most sweat-drenched meat market, where they will "shift" (ie kiss) whoever will have them. I say this all with affection, and the realisation that Brits are as bad, if not worse.

Arthur’s Day is so vile because it was dreamed up by PR folk at Diageo in 2009, but is presented as a longstanding tribute to the Guinness founder. It is “celebrated” by a blitz of media and free gigs where Irish music fans have pints of the black stuff foisted on them while they listen to average indie bilge. This is Ireland as brand: Guinness is good for you and your nation, and you’d better not disagree.

Diageo has done very well in creating the impression that Guinness and Irish identity are inextricably linked. They are not. Guinness is just one very popular stout. If you’re ever in Dublin, try the Porterhouse, where they’ll sell you any number of delicious variants that don’t come with a full suite of media spinoffs and a ridiculous "holiday" built to lure American tourists into the honeytrap of Dublin’s Temple Bar. Arthur Guinness deserves to be remembered, but not with this tawdry spectacle.